Suddenly, there was a sense of urgency in the air. The children who were making their First Communion were ushered away. The organ struck up. The congregation rose.

Mothers adjusted their dresses and tugged at their hems; fathers stood straight and tried to look tall. Younger brothers had their hair smartened and their fidgeting fingers calmed.

The procession came past us. Neat rows of boys and girls looking half like children, half like little adults. This was it, another milestone, another stage, another marker in their journey up and away.

Where, I thought, was that little baby girl who not so long ago would fit in the crook of your arm? In her cousin’s dress, white shoes and flower-covered hairband, she looked so grown-up.

I looked at my wife and saw there was a tear in her eye and realised there was one in mine too.

The priest was talking about an old photo. He showed it to the children. It was of his mother, who made her First Communion in 1938.

I thought of my own mother, and her family, of my old uncle Harry, and of the steadfastness of their faith, of the generations who came here much as we had done, on a summer’s day in their finery to pass their faith on to a new generation.

This sometimes happens to me in churches. I noticed it in the sequence of Masses I and my daughter attended in the run-up to her Communion. Something resonates with me, something about the rhythm of the liturgy, or the sense of history, or the singing of the choir. I always bring a tissue.

I looked at my wife and saw there was a tear in her eye and realised there was one in mine too.

As the priest was speaking, I became aware of activity at the far end of our pew. I saw my daughter’s face light up and followed her gaze.

There, rather awkwardly arranging themselves beside us, were three uncles and an aunt from my wife’s family. And a cousin.

I have never been so happy to see four atheists in a church in my life. They had come, even though they didn’t believe. It was a gesture of support and solidarity and brought another tear to the eye.

My daughter did a reading and received her first Communion with a lovely composure. “It’s very dry, dad,” she said afterwards. “It stuck to the roof of my mouth.”

As we filed out of the church, I found my wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

3 thoughts on “Why I was never as glad to see four atheists in a church”

I was very moved by your ‘Four athiests’ piece. That and other of your posts are brilliant. Keep up the good work. I see you teach journalism now — so you know how I felt! Take a look at my new effort http://www.LookAndGrowMindful.com